


The King and I

by versigny



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: ??? - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Arranged Marriage, Drabble, F/M, Language Barrier, Minghao is so stupidly unappreciated, To Be Continued
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-24
Updated: 2017-03-11
Packaged: 2018-07-17 22:52:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7289263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/versigny/pseuds/versigny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An arranged marriage, a young king, a faraway land.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Chin up. Eyes steady. Don’t look sad or weak.

These were your instructions from day one. You hated them, resented them, wished them to hell and death and damnation. Every heavy layer of fabric you wore, gilded with golden thread and silk embroidery all done by the finest hands in colors that shined like firelight and jeweled mornings, felt like the robes of the reaper hanging off of you, and the docks that had come into view, your execution grounds.

Colorful flags were soaring above the city. It spanned far, straight down through the valley that was protected by shale mountains capped with snow miles above. Maybe in a different time, a different life, you could have appreciated it. The Theatian Kingdom was known for its vivid beauty, its marvelous scenery, after all.

But this was not that time, nor that life. This was your death sentence.

The ferry landed sooner than you could have ever wished for.

–

“The Young King,” the raspy voice of the old woman said, “Minghao.”

Those were some of the only spoken words you had understood so far. Even though you were provided with endless tutors, books, opportunities, you rejected every single attempt at being taught the culture and language of your new captor’s _home_. But you had known his name. And you had known his title.

The tall doors of gold and lattice parted, exposing the atrium’s exit to the ceremonial room. The whole thing was lit by candles and heavily perfumed with something sweet-smelling but heady, and notes of jasmine. At the altar, naturally, was the monk assigned to wed you.

And to his left was the Young King.

Minghao, you had been told, was the only son of a king who had long passed of illness. The queen regent, his mother, had fallen desperately into grief, and rumors had it she was locked away deep in the palace grounds, never to see the light of day again. For all intents and purposes, your new king, you anticipated, was to be young, scrawny, decisive, gangly, and hardly a year older than you. A child.

Heart slamming nauseatingly inside your skull, you wondered who had explained so ruefully to begin with. You couldn’t believe the male to the monk’s left was the Young King, but… but he wore the gleaming headpiece of the king. He wasn’t short, or gangly – he was spry-looking. Like a sparrow. His chestnut hair swept neatly to the side, and his dark eyes watched you evenly – waiting. Waiting.

Most upsettingly of all, the Young King Minghao was handsome.

Bile rose in your throat. One of the maids said something to you that you could not understand, but you assumed it to be an urging forward. There was a marriage to get on with, after all.

At the altar, lightheaded from the perfumes and mind attempting to detach from the horrible reality of the situation you’d been thrust into and groomed for, you were not able to meet your husband-to-be’s eyes. But you felt them on you. Watching. Waiting.

The monk spoke. Then, Minghao took your hands in his – delicately, serenely, and it took you by surprise enough to make you gasp softly and glance up at him – and he was looking at you more curiously now.

The procession began. The monk began reciting whatever poetic nonsense that would bind you to the royalty that stood before you.

Minghao seemed to have made up his mind on something you could not grasp. And very, very quietly, he tilted his head and mumbled something at you. Just loud enough for you to make out.

But that didn’t matter.

Your heart was going into overdrive. The heat of embarrassment and nervousness and stress flooded your cheeks, turning them even redder than the rouge that had been applied to them, and you tried not to look panicked as Minghao repeated himself.

“I don’t understand,” you whispered back.

Minghao blinked. Then, his eyes went wider – just a touch. You did not want to be here. You did not want to feel guilt. You did not want to feel attraction.

You wanted to hate this boy.

Minghao didn’t say anything after that. The monk’s deep voice rumbled in the air, still talking through his vows and divine promises, and Minghao simply returned to watching you closely – except his brows ticked in with the vaguest worry.

Chin up. Eyes steady. Don’t look sad or weak.

Your betrothed’s hands, lithe and cool, hold yours just a little tighter. As if he’s trying to comfort you without words – words he doesn’t have, and neither do you.

Your head lowers, and your eyes shut tight to keep in the moisture. You look like a broken bride.

Minghao murmurs something, something soothing, and you’re not sure your heart will be able to last this.


	2. Chapter 2

Minghao had truly prepared for the worst.

War papers, documents and scribes on strategy and names and dates and possibilities – all of these are what he dwelled on as a councilman gave him regular notice on how soon the ferry carrying his bride-to-be was arriving. The marriage, after all, determined the future of him, his country, his people, and his bride’s.

It wasn’t until her menagerie was approaching the castle doors that his hands stopped shaking. A deep-seated calm sunk into his bones then; it’s something one cultivates as born royalty, the ability to shut down all unnecessary emotions and feelings in order to rule and act as needed.

The great doors of one of the many private parlors opened. Perfume stained the air. Somewhere, far in the distance, the summer birds sang and ceremonial bells rang from the homes of the unmarried maidens in good luck, as was custom in its superstition.

But Minghao had not considered one possibility.

Among the servants, lingering with grace to hide your unreadable unease, was the South Duke’s daughter. He had heard nothing of her, not particularly – she was a very agreeable and acceptable candidate of good breeding and stature. 

He had not heard, not once, that you were enchanting. You were breathtaking. He didn’t know if it was the stress finally making him lose his mind, if it was the way the candlelight mingled with the jasmine and sandalwood and sweetwater and sunshine, or if the cut of your gown was simply so unfamiliar in his beauty that his mind could not swallow it whole. But you were _marvelous_.

No amount of trying or focus could make him fully tune-in to the words of the clergy; he let himself be vaguely guided to the shrine where the union would take place, all the while desperately trying to not trip over his own feet as he observed you. A pang of despair wormed into his nerves all the while as he became increasingly aware of your unhappiness, though he knew not if it stemmed from nerves or otherwise. You had every – _every_ – right to be nervous. He couldn’t let a soul fault you for that.

The moment of truth arrived in what felt like minutes. The steady, ancient poems of matrimony, of the sacred twining of souls and lives, were dictated. The vows of rule and promises of good keeping in both heart and mind recited. Minghao almost jumped out of his own skin when the prompting came – “Young King, who takes the Hand of his Bride in Blessed Keeping…” – and it was only by the grace of a miracle that the old quiet had taken hold of his head again and kept his palms from shivering with tension as he gently reached out and took your hands.

 _They’re so small,_ he wondered, and then with more worry, _and cold. She’s cold._

He needed, truly needed, to help you. Nothing had been more important. Maybe it was because the possibility of loving you had never crossed his mind that it had possessed him so strongly in response.

And worse still, when your skin met, he heard the soft sound of a gasp and was wholly unprepared to meet your eyes.

Don’t, his head begged, though he didn’t know for what. His mouth, however, moved without him, saying something foolish and stupid and–

“I’ll keep you safe,” he whispered with deep promise, and he hoped the sentiment would not go over poorly. He did not _want_  to own you. You were not his toy. You were his – well, his wife, you were afraid, he was responsible, he…

He gazed soothingly at that the mild expression you wore of confusion, and a dangerous thought crossed his mind. It might have meant only one thing. One thing that he had not accounted for.

Swallowing gently, he prayed to whatever gods existed that you had only simply misheard him. So he repeated himself, more reverently, more desperately: “I’ll keep you _safe_.”

“ _Ãƒ’¢â ¬¡ƒâ€š‚£_ ,” you replied, and it was the first time he had heard your voice. There was nothing that could deny the faint shivers it took down his spine, but a palpable dread took root around the edges of his thrumming heart.

You could not speak his tongue.

He didn’t know what to do after that. In a belated sign of comfort, he squeezed your hands in his own, hoping it would convey what he tried to say in a way you might feel, too. He considered wrapping you in his arms and apologizing so many times you would, eventually, have to understand.

But he could not. He couldn’t run, couldn’t hide, couldn’t send you home. Couldn’t.

“Don’t worry,” he murmurs, gaze lowered to where your hands linked. It’s all he can do. The pretty echo of his mother’s voice rings in his head, saying the same words as he did now when he was younger and sickly. “The world is kind when you’re here with me. Don’t worry.”

“It is with great Honor, filial Pride, and humble Grace, that the lords may accept and dignify this marriage to its utmost Glory. Under the eyes of the lords, will the Young King Xu Minghao, Son of his Lord Father, recite his vow?”

Minghao looks up at you. You might not understand, but that doesn’t mean he can’t try.

“Of course.”


End file.
